The High King (Chronicles of Prydain (Henry Holt and Company)) Read online

“You saved his life, my friend,” Taran said.

  “And lost what Gwydion would have given his life to keep!” cried the bard. “The Huntsmen failed to slay him, but a greater evil has befallen him. They’ve stripped him of his sword—blade and scabbard!”

  Taran caught his breath. Concerned only for his companion’s wounds, he had not seen that Dyrnwyn, the black sword, hung no longer at Gwydion’s side. Terror filled him. Dyrnwyn, the enchanted blade, the flaming weapon of ancient power, was in the Huntsmen’s hands. They would bear it to their master: to Arawn Death-Lord, in the dark realm of Annuvin.

  Fflewddur sank to the ground and put his head in his hands. “And my own wits are lost, since you tell me it was not yourself who called out to us.”

  “What you saw I cannot judge,” Taran said. “Gwydion’s life is our first care. We will talk of these things when your memory is clearer.”

  “The harper’s memory is clear enough.” A black-robed woman moved from the dark corner where she had been silently listening, and stepped slowly into the midst of the company. Her long, unbound hair glittered like pale silver; the deadly beauty of her face had not altogether vanished, though now it seemed shadowy, worn away, lingering as a dream only half-recalled.

  “Ill fortune mars our meeting, Assistant Pig-Keeper,” Achren said. “But welcome, nonetheless. What, then, do you still fear me?” she added, seeing Taran’s uneasy glance. She smiled. Her teeth were sharp. “Neither has Eilonwy Daughter of Angharad forgotten my powers, though it was she who destroyed them at the Castle of Llyr. Yet, since I have dwelt here, have I not served Dallben as well as any of you?”

  Achren strode to the outstretched form of Gwydion. Taran saw a look almost of pity in her cold eyes. “Lord Gwydion will live,” she said. “But he may find life a crueler fate than death.” She bent and with her fingertips lightly touched the warrior’s brow, then drew her hand away and faced the bard.

  “Your eyes did not play you false, harper,” Achren said. “You saw what was meant for you to see. A pig-keeper? Why not, if thus he chose to appear? Only one wields such power: Arawn himself, Lord of Annuvin, Land of the Dead.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Letter Sticks

  Taran could not stifle a gasp of fear. The black-robed woman glanced at him coldly.

  “Arawn dares not pass the borders of Annuvin in his true form,” Achren said. “To do so would mean his death. But he commands all shapes, and they are both shield and mask. To the harper and Lord Gwydion, he showed himself as a pig-keeper. He could as well have appeared as a fox in the forest, an eagle, even a blind worm if he deemed that would best serve his ends. Yes, Pig-Keeper, with no less ease could he have chosen the form and features of any creature living. For Lord Gwydion, what better lure than the sight of a companion in danger—one who had fought often at his side, known to him, and trusted. Gwydion is too shrewd a warrior to be taken in a weaker snare.”

  “Then all of us are lost,” Taran said, dismayed. “The Lord of Annuvin can move among us as he pleases, and we are without defense against him.”

  “You have reason to fear, Pig-Keeper,” replied Achren. “Now you glimpse one of Arawn’s subtlest powers. But it is a power used only when none other will serve him. Never will he leave his stronghold, save in the press of mortal danger; or, as today, when what he sought to gain far outweighed the risk.” Achren’s voice lowered. “Arawn has many secrets, but this one is most deeply guarded. Once he assumes a shape, his strength and skill are no greater than that of the guise he wears. Then can he be slain, like any mortal thing.”

  “Oh, Fflewddur, if I’d only been with you!” Eilonwy cried in despair. “Arawn wouldn’t have deceived me, no matter how much he looked like Taran. Don’t tell me I couldn’t have told the difference between a real Assistant Pig-Keeper and a false one!”

  “Foolish pride, Daughter of Angharad,” Achren answered scornfully. “No eyes can see behind the mask of Arawn Death-Lord. No eyes,” she added, “but mine. Do you doubt me?” Achren went on quickly, seeing Eilonwy’s surprise.

  The woman’s ravaged features held shreds of an old pride, and her voice sharpened with haughtiness and anger.

  “Long before the Sons of Don came to dwell in Prydain, long before the lords of the cantrevs swore allegiance to Math, High King, and Gwydion, his war-leader, it was I who commanded obedience to my rule, I who wore the Iron Crown of Annuvin.

  “Arawn was my consort, who served me and did my bidding,” Achren said. “And he betrayed me.” Her voice was low and harsh, and rage glittered in her eyes. “He robbed me of my throne and cast me aside. Yet his powers are no secret to me, for it was I who taught them to him. Let him cloud your sight with whatever guise he chooses. From me, never can the face of Arawn be hidden.”

  Gwydion stirred and groaned faintly. Taran turned again to the basin of healing herbs, while Eilonwy raised the warrior’s head.

  “Bear Prince Gwydion to my chamber,” Dallben ordered. The enchanter’s careworn face was drawn, and the lines had deepened in his withered cheeks. “Your skill has helped keep him from death,” he said to Taran. “Now I must see if mine may help him to life.”

  Coll lifted Gwydion in his burly arms.

  Achren made to follow after him. “I have little need of sleep and can best keep a vigil,” Achren said. “I shall watch the night over Lord Gwydion.”

  “I shall watch over him,” Eilonwy said, stepping to the side of Coll.

  “Fear me not, Daughter of Angharad,” Achren said. “I bear no ill will against Lord Gwydion.” She bowed deeply, half-humble and half-mocking. “The stable is my castle and the scullery my realm. I seek no other.”

  “Come,” Dallben said, “both of you shall help me. Wait—the others. Be patient and hopeful.”

  Darkness had blinded the windows of the cottage. To Taran, it seemed the fire had lost its warmth and cast only cold shadows among the silent companions.

  “At first I thought somehow we could overtake the Huntsmen and keep them from reaching Annuvin,” Taran said at last. “But if Achren speaks truth, Arawn himself commanded them, and Gwydion’s sword is already in his hands. I do not know his purpose, but I am deeply afraid.”

  “I can’t forgive myself,” Fflewddur said. “The loss is my fault. I should have seen the trap instantly.”

  Taran shook his head. “Arawn worked a bitter ruse on you. Gwydion himself was deceived.”

  “But not I!” cried the bard. “A Fflam is keen-eyed! From the first moment, I saw differences. The way he sat his steed, the way …” The harp, slung at the bard’s shoulder, tensed suddenly and a string snapped with such a twang that Gurgi, crouched near the hearth, started bolt upright. Fflewddur choked and swallowed. “There it goes again,” he muttered. “Will it never leave off? The slightest … ah, coloring of the facts, and the beastly strings break! Believe me, I meant no exaggeration. As I thought back it did seem that I could notice … no, the truth of it is: The guise was perfect. I could be snared again—and as easily.”

  “Amazing!” murmured the King of Mona, who had been watching wide-eyed. “I say, I wish I could do that sort of shape-changing myself. Unbelievable! I’ve always thought: How interesting to be a badger, or an ant. I should love to know how to build as well as they do. Since I’ve been king, I’ve tried to improve things here and there. I mean to put up a new seawall at Mona Haven. I’ve begun once already. My idea was to start from both ends at the same time and thus be done twice as quickly. I can’t understand what went wrong, for I took charge of all the work myself, but somehow we didn’t meet in the middle and I’ll have to find a better way of going at it. Then I’ve planned a road to Glew’s old cavern. It’s an amazing place and I think the folk of Dinas Rhydnant will enjoy visiting it. Surprising how easy it is,” Rhun said, beaming proudly. “The planning, at any rate. The doing, for some reason, always seems a little harder.”

  Glew, hearing his name spoken, pricked up his ears. He had not left his place in the chimney corner; nor ha
d his alarm at the happenings in the cottage made him loosen his hold on the cook-pot. “When I was a giant,” he began.

  “I see the little weasel is with you,” said Fflewddur to King Rhun, recognizing Glew immediately despite the former giant’s present stature. “When he was a giant,” the bard muttered, giving Glew a look of ill-concealed vexation, “he was a paltry one. He’d have done anything to be free of that cavern—even to popping us into that foul stew he’d cooked up. A Fflam is forgiving! But I think he went a little too far.”

  “When I was a giant,” Glew continued, either ignoring or not hearing the bard’s remarks, “no one would have humiliated me by taking me by the ears and hustling me aboard a smelly boat. I had no wish to come here. After what’s happened today, I have less wish to stay.” Glew pursed his lips. “Dallben shall see that I’m taken back to Mona without delay.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Taran replied. “But Dallben has graver concerns now, and so do we all.”

  Mumbling something about shabby treatment and lack of consideration, Glew scraped a finger along the bottom of the pot and sucked his teeth with indignant satisfaction. The companions said no more, but settled down to wait out the night.

  The fire burned to ashes. A night wind rose outside the cottage. Taran rested his head on his arms. At this homecoming he had longed to stand before Eilonwy, forgetting rank and birth, as any man before any woman, and ask her to wed. But now the disaster that had overtaken Gwydion made Taran’s own wishes unimportant. Though he still did not know Eilonwy’s heart, nor what her answer to him might be, he could not bring himself to learn it until all hearts were at peace again. He closed his eyes. The wind screamed as if it would rip to tatters the quiet meadows and orchards of Caer Dallben.

  A hand on his shoulder aroused him. It was Eilonwy.

  “Gwydion has wakened,” she said. “He would speak with us.”

  In Dallben’s chamber the Prince of Don half-raised himself from the couch. His features were pale under their weathering, and tightly drawn, though more in anger than pain. His mouth was set, bitter, his green eyes burned with dark flashes, and his glance was that of a proud wolf scornful of his hurt, and scornful all the more of those who had given him his wounds. Achren was a silent shadow in the corner. The old enchanter stood anxiously beside the book-strewn table near the wooden bench where Taran, throughout boyhood, had sat for lessons. The Book of Three, the huge, leather-bound tome of secret lore forbidden to all but Dallben himself, lay closed atop a pile of other ancient volumes.

  Taran, with Eilonwy, Fflewddur, and King Rhun behind him, strode to Gwydion and clasped the warrior’s hand. The Prince of Don smiled grimly.

  “No merry meeting, and no long one, Assistant Pig-Keeper,” Gwydion said. “Dallben has told me of the Death-Lord’s ruse. Dyrnwyn must be regained at all cost, and without delay. He spoke, too, of your wanderings,” Gwydion added. “I would hear more of them from yourself, but that must wait another time. I ride to Annuvin before the day is out.”

  Taran looked at the Prince of Don in surprise and concern. “Your wounds are still fresh. You cannot make such a journey.”

  “Neither can I stay here,” Gwydion answered. “Since Dyrnwyn first came into my hands, I have learned more of its nature. Only a little more,” he added, “but enough to know its loss is fatal.

  “Dyrnwyn’s lineage is as ancient as Prydain itself,” Gwydion continued, “and much of its history has been forgotten or destroyed. For long, the blade was thought no more than legend, and matter for a harper’s song. Taliesin Chief Bard is wisest in the lore of Prydain, but even he could tell me only that Govannion the Lame, a master craftsman, forged and tempered Dyrnwyn at the behest of King Rhydderch Hael, as a weapon of greatest power and protection for the land. To safeguard it, a spell was cast upon the blade and a warning graven on the scabbard.”

  “I remember the Old Writing,” Eilonwy said. “Indeed, I shall never forget it, for I had an impossible time keeping Taran from meddling with things he didn’t understand. ‘Draw Dyrnwyn only thou of royal blood …’”

  “Closer to its true meaning is ‘noble worth,’” said Gwydion. “The enchantment forbade the sword to all but those who would use it wisely and well. The flame of Dyrnwyn would destroy any other who sought to draw it. But the writing on the scabbard has been marred. The full message, which might have told more of the sword’s purpose, is unknown.

  “King Rhydderch bore the blade throughout his life,” Gwydion continued, “and his sons after him. Their reigns were peaceful and prosperous. But here Dyrnwyn’s history ends. King Rhitta, grandson of Rhydderch, was the last to hold the blade. He was lord of Spiral Castle before it became the stronghold of Queen Achren. He met his death, in a way unknown, with Dyrnwyn clutched in his hands. From that time on the sword was seen no more, forgotten as it lay buried with him in Spiral Castle’s deepest chamber.” Gwydion turned to Eilonwy. “Where you, Princess, found it. You gave it to me willingly; but it was not willingly that it left my hands. The blade is worth more than my life, or the lives of any of us. In Arawn’s grasp, it can bring doom upon Prydain.”

  “Do you believe Arawn can unsheathe the sword?” Taran asked hurriedly. “Can he turn the weapon against us? Can he make it serve some evil end?”

  “This I do not know,” replied Gwydion. The warrior’s face was troubled. “It may be that Arawn Death-Lord has found means to break the enchantment. Or, unable to use it himself, his purpose may be to keep the blade from any other use. He would have taken my life as well as the sword. Thanks to Fflewddur Fflam, I still have the one. Now I must find the other, though the path lead me to the depths of Annuvin itself.”

  Achren, silent until now, raised her head and spoke to Gwydion. “Let me seek Dyrnwyn in your stead. I know the ways of Annuvin; no stranger am I to its secret hoards, and where and how they are guarded. If the sword is hidden, I will find it. If Arawn himself bears it, Dyrnwyn will be taken from him. More than that. I swear by every oath to destroy him. Thus have I sworn already to myself, and swear it again to you. You forced life upon me, Gwydion, when I begged for death. Now give me what I live for. Give me my vengeance.”

  Gwydion did not answer immediately. His green-flecked eyes searched the woman’s face. He said, “Vengeance is not a gift I may bestow, Achren.”

  Achren stiffened. Her hands twisted into claws and Taran feared she would fling herself upon Gwydion. She did not move. “You will not trust me,” Achren said hoarsely. Her bloodless lips turned in a smile of contempt. “So be it, Prince of Don. Once you scorned to share a kingdom with me. Scorn me again to your own loss.”

  “I do not scorn you,” Gwydion said. “I only urge you to accept Dallben’s protection. Stay here in safety. Among all of us, your hope of finding the sword is the least. Arawn’s hatred of you can be no less than yours of him. He or his servants would slay you at sight, even before you set foot in Annuvin. No, Achren, what you offer is not possible.” He thought a moment. “There may be another way to learn how Dyrnwyn shall be found.”

  Gwydion turned to Dallben, but the enchanter sorrowfully shook his head.

  “Alas,” Dallben said, “The Book of Three cannot tell us what we most need to know. I have searched carefully, every page, to understand its hidden meanings. They are dark, even to me. Fetch the letter sticks,” the enchanter said to Coll. “Hen Wen alone can help us.”

  From her enclosure the white pig watched the silent procession. On his bony shoulders Dallben bore the letter sticks, the ash-wood rods carved with ancient symbols. Glew, interested only in the provisions of the scullery, remained behind, as did Gurgi, who well remembered the former giant and chose to keep an eye on him. Achren had spoken no further, but hooded her face and sat motionless in the cottage.

  Usually, at the sight of Taran, the oracular pig would squeal joyously and trot to the railing to have her chin scratched. Now she cowered in a far corner of the pen, her little eyes wide and her cheeks trembling. As Dallben entered the enclosure
and planted the letter sticks upright in the earth, Hen Wen snuffled and crouched closer against the bars.

  Dallben, murmuring inaudibly, moved to stand beside the ash-wood rods. Outside the enclosure, the companions waited. Hen Wen whimpered and did not stir.

  “What does she fear?” Eilonwy whispered. Taran made no answer; his eyes were fixed on the aged enchanter in his wind-whipped robe, on the letter sticks, and the unmoving form of Hen Wen. Against the dull sky they seemed to him frozen together in their own moment, far beyond the silent watchers. This was the first time Taran had seen the enchanter seek a prophecy from the oracular pig. Of Dallben’s powers he could only guess; but he knew Hen Wen, and knew she was too terrified to move. He waited what felt an age. Even Rhun sensed something amiss; the King of Mona’s cheerful face was darkly clouded.

  Dallben glanced uneasily at Gwydion. “Never before has Hen Wen refused to answer when the letter sticks were shown her.”

  Again he murmured words Taran could not distinguish. The oracular pig shuddered violently, shut her eyes, and sank her head between her stubby trotters.

  “Perhaps a few notes on my harp?” Fflewddur suggested. “I’ve had excellent success …”

  The enchanter motioned the bard to be silent. Once more he spoke, softly yet commandingly. Hen Wen shrank into herself and moaned as though in pain.

  “Her fear blinds her powers,” Dallben said gravely. “Even my spells do not reach her. I have failed.”

  Despair filled the faces of the watching companions.

  Gwydion bowed his head, and his eyes were deeply troubled. “We, too, shall fail,” he said, “if we do not learn whatever she can tell us.”

  Quickly and without a word Taran climbed the railing, walked steadily toward the frightened pig, and dropped to his knees beside her. He scratched her chin and gently stroked her neck. “Don’t be afraid, Hen. Nothing will harm you here.”

  Dallben, surprised, started forward, then halted. Hearing Taran’s voice, the pig had cautiously opened one eye.